


Dom Mention It

by wearyeyebrow



Category: Undertail - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual Sex, D/s overtones, Demisexual Sans (Undertale), Dom/Sub Exploration, Ecto-Penis (Undertale), Established Relationship, F/M, Gentle femdom, Implied Dom Reader, Implied Sexual Dysfunction, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Sensitive bones, Slice of Life, Sub Sans, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 06:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearyeyebrow/pseuds/wearyeyebrow
Summary: Both Sub Sans and Gentle Femdom make me happy, so why not both? This is on the sweeter side of D/s dynamics, and was really fun to write. There's some exposition at the beginning, and then we get right to it. I hope you enjoy!





	

The evening sun hangs red in the sky, throwing rimmed shadows across your bedroom. Sans is lying face down on the duvet, arms under his head as a makeshift pillow, watching your bedside TV. It’s an old show, some black and white sitcom that’s horribly outdated.

He’s even more exhausted than usual, whatever he’s been up to keeping him from sleeping well. He doesn’t seem too keen on talking about it, so you chill in relative silence, enjoying each other’s company. 

Thoughts float on by, leaving as quickly as they arrived. Like what groceries to get, and that one embarrassing moment in third grade. 

You try to ignore the nagging uncertainty in the back of your mind. Where are you going? What will you be doing ten years from now? You want to crawl out of your skin.

Instead, you give up and rub your temples, turning to Sans.

‘What’s happening? Haven’t been paying attention.’

‘i think the main dude is into his son’s teacher.’

‘Huh.’ 

You prop yourself up on one elbow and snake your hand over his shirt, lightly tracing the crest of his scapula, feeling the immutable strength of bone beneath your fingers.

He sighs at the gesture, sinking further into the bed. You are deliberate. Pressing and wondering, as if you are looking for knots in his back. 

‘not quite sure what you’re doing,’ he murmurs, face pressed into the bedspread, ‘but whatever it is, it feels incredible.’

You reach his lumbar vertebrae, just above his sacrum and tailbone. You focus your mind on relaxing, hoping to turn off certain ideas before they start percolating. But he doesn’t let you, subtly moving his hips against the sheets, as if he’s inviting you to make a move.

Your mind buzzes, nagging at you, reminding you of everything you’ve yet to think through. His shirt feels soft over your fingers, old and worn well. The off-white of his skull is stark against your navy sheets. A welcome distraction.

You smoothly slide over him, minding his tailbone, before perching on his pelvis, letting your weight settle into his. 

He looks back at you through a hooded eye socket, questioning your intentions. Or rather, confirming them. He had asked after all.

But you take your time. The soft pressure of your fingers is anything but relaxing as you intimately dip your hands under his shirt, along the hemline, slipping through his rib cage. His breath hitches when you slowly grind yourself into his pelvis, the texture of his bones faint through the fabric of your sweats.

‘You wanna do it?’ You murmur, your voice barely audible over the buzzing of the TV.

‘what gave you that idea?’

You smile, knowingly, ‘What do you want, Sans?’

‘…whatever you like.’

‘Okay.’ 

You kiss the back of his skull and then sit up on your knees, relieving his body of your weight. ‘Turn over and face me.’

He turns over with as little motion as possible, settling with an oomph. You sit back onto his pelvis. The two of you are silent. Dust motes hang in the air.

You lean over him, a hand coming to rest beside his head. The other one traces the delicate vertebrae of his neck; he subtly tilts and you wrap your hand around his throat. Your thumb brushes between cracks and divots, feeling no pulse. Rather a hum, a small tingling sensation you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking for it. 

Trust. 

You bend forward and brush your lips against his neck, the space between your fingers. Then his jawline, his forehead. The TV fades into the background. He sighs softly.

The room is a hazy, golden yellow. The contrast is subtle, shadows filtered by the blinds. Your gaze is focused but not without warmth; he stares openly, as if into a roaring fire. 

‘I have an idea,’ you say more to yourself than to him. You get up, stretching. ‘Sit against the headboard.’ 

You walk to the other side of the bed. Inside of your nightstand drawer is a small bottle of lube, half full. It makes a soft thud on the tabletop. 

‘Take your shirt off for me.’ You say softly, with little room for argument.

He pulls it off to expose his ribcage. It expands and contracts with each breath he takes.

‘Perfect.’ You subconsciously run a hand over your hip, ‘Take your shorts off too.’ You unzip your hoodie, wearing nothing but an old bra underneath. You leave it on, and shed your sweats, your underwear mismatched and faded. ‘Just toss them on the floor.’ You say, as he begins to shimmy out of his. 

He now sits in front of you, shirt off, boxers low on his pelvis, and a light blue flush on his cheekbones. 

‘Let me see your cock.’ 

The familiar crackling sound begins as magic takes shape. He’s already half-hard, barely covered by his boxers. He clears his throat and avoids your gaze. Cute. You lick your lips.

‘Wait for me.’ It isn’t often you put on a show. He inhales sharply when you snake a hand into your underwear. You circle your clit, eyes hooded, lips parted, enjoying the sight spread out in front of you. 

You drop your hoodie to the floor, flinching when the zipper hits your foot. You breathe out and slip your bra over your head, not bothering with the clasps.

You stand almost naked in front of him, a hand back in your underwear, another on your breast. You use the bedpost as support, holding yourself up as you monopolize his attention. His breathing is uneven as he reaches a hand toward his cock.

‘No,’ you murmur, as you watch precum seep through the fabric of his boxers.

He withdraws his hand, instead clenching the sheet beside him. It’s as if he’s worried you’ll stop once he starts speaking.

You slip one finger inside of yourself and quickly find what you’re looking for, knowing your own body. An unintentional sound escapes the back of your throat, soft and low. 

His fingers twitch, ‘please,’ he whispers, ‘please let me touch you.’ 

You shake your head no, breathless, and lean against the bedpost. ‘Let me see you touch yourself.’ He flushes all the way down to the tips of his shoulders. ‘Let me see that pretty blue cock, yeah?’ 

He toes off his boxers and they fall to the floor. His legs shake as they part. He finally wraps a hand around himself.

‘Perfect.’ You whisper, ‘Touch yourself in any way you like.’ 

He starts moving, slow and practiced, eyelights pointed anywhere but you. 

‘Sans, look at me.’ He struggles to do so; you are not unaware of his performance anxiety. Yet you can’t help but stare, licking your lips at the sight of him flustered before you. 

‘You look so good like this.’

‘…bones aren’t uh, unusual on skeletons,’ he jokes, cheekbones darker still.

You chuckle as you slide over to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. He looks at you with anticipation. You drag your fingertips over the top of his foot, and lean down to kiss his ankle. You roll the small bones of his toes between your fingers and he shudders. 

You crawl up his body, your hands a whisper touch between his bones. He pauses, breathing hard. 

‘Don’t stop,’ you murmur as you kiss his shoulder.

You sit next to him, your body flush against his. As if on reflex, he reaches for you. 

‘Not yet.’ You say, a bell on your voice. He clenches his teeth, chest heaving.

‘What is it, Sans?’ You ask quietly, ‘What do you really want?’

‘…touch me.’

‘What was that?’

He hesitates, ‘…please, baby please – i don’t care where, i just want, i want…’ You can hear the beginnings of desperation. A little bit more.

‘What do you want? Tell me.’

‘it’s…’ the hand on his cock slows down. 

‘Keep going,’ you remind him. ‘What is it you want?’

‘i…’ Sometimes it’s easy, and other times it’s like pulling teeth. Either way, you’ll find him.

He clenches his jaw. He can’t come. He’s too wound up, caught on what he could or shouldn’t say, could or shouldn’t want. Caught on yesterdays and the choices he's made. He's trying, mind hazy, pushing out thoughts for want of the present, for want of distraction. Zero decisions, zero consequences, zero judgement.

‘What do you want, Sans?’ 

He shakes his head, tugging at his cock, trying to focus on your voice grounding him in the present.

‘It’s evening, everyone else is gone, just us – I can’t know what you want unless you tell me.’

‘i…’ his hand pulls at the duvet, shaking, he squeezes his eye sockets shut. ‘i want…’ before buckling, ‘take over – take over, i’m sorry, don’t wanna think, don’t wanna, don’t – fuck, i need you, please, fucking please.’ He whispers, an edge to his voice, sweet, horrid desperation. Raw emotion.

That’s what you were waiting for. You easily pull him into your arms as he clamors toward you. Spreading your legs, you hold him between them and whisper low, ‘S’alright baby boy, I’ve got you.’ 

He collapses into your body, breathing into your shoulder. You grab some more lube from your nightstand. He flinches at the temperature change when you squeeze some onto your hand. You start with your thumb, sweet and slow, working him. 

‘Relax…’ He takes deep shuttering breaths, hand clenching your thigh. ‘That’s it…’ 

‘it hurts.’ He whispers.

‘S’okay. I’ll make you feel good, I promise.’ 

He whimpers softly into the crook of your neck, an unexpected surge of emotion. Your hand trails up and down his spine, trying to calm him. The other hand continues to work his overstimulated cock, on that line between pain and pleasure, where he’s held in suspension.

He croaks your name, hands feebly grasping at your skin, ‘What is it?’ You murmur low against his temple.

His words are slurred and muffled as he speaks into your body, trying to articulate. Sinking deeper and deeper.

‘Gonna have to say it a little louder.’

‘please,’ he sniffles, ‘please make me come, i can’t take it, please baby, please; i’ll be good, whatever you want.’

You kiss his heated forehead, ‘Don’t worry, don’t think. Just relax into it, relax into me. I know it’s hard.’ You feel emotion tug at you; dominance, power, a threshold of intensity, paired with an aching sweetness that only this high can give you.

‘okay.’ He whispers, so different from his usual nonchalant monotone.

You wrap your arm around his rib cage, holding him against you, lips to his skull. 

Your touch is languid, your soft fingers contrast his hard phalanges, the ache relived some. You keep it up, whispering low in his ear, a quiet stream of affirmation.

‘f-fuck-’ His voice catches in his throat, body suddenly tense, gasping for air. His phalanges dig into your skin. 

‘There it is, that’s it baby boy, just like that…’ you murmur, pressing with your thumb, rhythmically pumping your hand. 

He goes rigid in your arms, toes clenching, nasal cavity leaving a harsh indentation in your skin. His growl turns into a whine as he comes, trembling, lighting a fire between your legs.

‘Y-es, yes, yes…’ he chokes, on the tail end of his orgasm, liquid cum drooling from his cock. 

You ease him down, hands softly running along his femurs. He begins to calm, catching his breath, relaxing into your arms.

He rubs at the tiny bruises forming on your thigh, eye sockets hooded. You lean back against the headboard and close your eyes, arms still around him. He shudders, followed by a familiar crackling sound. 

His genitalia fades, left with his bare pelvis in your lap. You reach a hand down and run your fingertips over his ischium. He inhales sharply, rocking his hips. 

You’re not done.

‘…Sans, I want you beneath me. On your back.’

He lets out a shaky exhale and nods, body still jerking with the occasional aftershock.

You shimmy down onto your stomach. He gasps when you kiss the inside of his femurs, your tongue delicately rimming each ridge and notch of bone surrounding his pubic symphysis. 

You have tunnel vision, lost in the feeling of euphoria you rarely manage. You stare up at him, your gaze an overwhelming look of confidence and adoration, of control and a gentle hand. 

‘you don’t have to,’ he rasps, eyelights pinning. 

‘I want to.'

He brings a hand to his mouth as you get to work. While it can be difficult for him to come without using a conduit, it’s not impossible. It just takes a difference approach. 

The world feels like it’s slowed. It doesn’t matter what’s going on outside, on the other side of the world. All that matters is whatever happens inside this room, right now.

You couldn’t be more different. He cries out at your tongue on bone, a human surface that should lack sensation. You have a hand curled under you, gently circling your clit; a creature of flesh and carnal desire, aching to watch a monster unravel.

But where are the differences found? Less of the mind and more of the body. What does it matter – he is an irreplaceable part of your life. All forms of expression manifest in those differences. You learn from them, lean on them. You grow together. 

‘Relax,’ You whisper to him, sucking gently on his pubic symphysis, words slurred. ‘I’ve got you.’

‘please,’ he chokes, ‘don’t stop, please don’t stop.’

You keep an eye on him as you swipe your tongue along the rims of his ischium. 

He lets out a shaky breath, falling back onto the pillow, an arm over his eye sockets. You suckle the underside of his pubic symphysis; a soft mewling sound escapes you. Fingertips on him, scratching at imperfections all over his pelvis.

‘jesus christ…’

Your tongue swirls around bone, its texture a scratchy, satisfying feeling. Above you he makes soft sounds of pleasure, a plaintive edge to his voice. You have to pay attention to catch his expressions, which makes them all the more worthwhile. 

He’s at your mercy, willingly giving you control. Completely oblivious to time and space, the setting sun lost on him as your room dims, muting the shadows. 

His voice piques, a soft squeak when you dip your tongue into the holes of his sacrum, fingers slowly rubbing his pubic symphysis. 

‘fucking hell,’ he breathes, letting out a little choked sob as you tease the small vertebrae of his tailbone. ‘babe,’ he manages between breathless pants.

‘You getting close?’

‘mhm.’

You go back to your languid teasing, fingers neither speeding up nor slowing down, the pressure steady.

‘fuck me – shit, yes…’

You smile and speed up, just slightly, a calculated move.

‘fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me-’ he whispers under his breath, like a mantra.

He gasps with each inhale. You can tell he’s on the edge. All you want is to see him come, feel him come, shaking beneath your hands. Hear the hum of his magic, an almost imperceptible buzz in your ear.

You grab his pelvis, a firm grip with a soft hand, keeping steady. You roughly drag your tongue against him, fingers stimulating him faster, and faster. Words fail him. 

He throws his head back in a silent scream, panting as you guide him through it, fingertips holding him there as long as possible. 

He comes down, limbs trembling. He laughs, wheezing in his euphoria, exhausted.

You feel hazy. The world is fuzzy around the edges as you rest your head on his femur. He reaches for you.

You pull your body up toward him, feeling like you’re made of lead. You collapse against him, ushering him into your arms, nuzzling the side of his head. 

You can feel your heartbeat slow, endorphins leaving you sleepy and satisfied. You lazily run your fingers over his scapula.

‘You okay?’ You mumble. The noise in your head is quiet.

‘yeah.’ 

You rest your chin on his head. ‘You want anything? Water?’

He chuckles softly, ‘sleep. stay.’

It’s your house, you want to quip, but you know how he meant it, so you say nothing.

‘…Sans?’

‘hm?’

‘I needed that.’ You mumble into his skull, on the precipice of sleep.

You feel a hand on your waist. He closes his eye sockets. 

‘me too.’

**Author's Note:**

> This was extremely self-indulgent, a little on the nose, and probably on the fringe of his character. But I've been in a mood lately. And it was fun to write! Constructive praise and criticism are always welcome. Thanks for reading!


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